


Surface Tension

by depressive



Category: CATWS - Fandom, Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, captain america: the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Angst, I am so sorry, Psychological Trauma, Triggers, this was supposed to be fluff but shit happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depressive/pseuds/depressive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had told him he was going to be alright.<br/>They had stripped his armor and washed his body and told him he was going to be okay.<br/>They had handed him clothes that smelled like detergent and whispered as they slid it over him, that everything would work out eventually.<br/>These were the words that he had always been told.<br/>And if the soldier knew anything, it was things would never be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FIC USED TO BE CALLED 20 DAYS:
> 
> So I have been wanting to write this for a long time, and finally my bottled up stucky feels took over, so here we are. I've never written a fic before so if it all goes to hell, let's pretend it never happened.  
> (a special thanks to the amazing Delia who helped me edit; thank you thank you thank you and my crazy friend who put me in this mess in the first place.)  
> I'm not sure where this fic will go, but I can tell you that if you hang in there, it will get better...probably.

The first day, the blond haired man snuck through security and sat just outside the glass wall that kept the soldier from the world. It wasn’t glass, the soldier soon realized. It didn’t break when he hit it, which he had until his hands were bruised and a few of his knuckles had split open. He hadn’t used his metal arm because maybe, though he refused to admit it, he wanted to feel something, anything, even if it was pain. Pain was what he knew.  
They had separated him from his weapons and armor — anything that could be used to harm others, or himself. Though he was fully clothed, he had never felt quite so naked.  
He was a caged animal at a circus; behind the glass. People in lab coats would constantly scribble down notes and then hurry away as soon as the soldier made eye contact with them. He was the underfed lion in the zoo; constantly harassed by children to see if he would bite. If they kept testing him, they would find out that he would.  
But the blond man didn’t run. The blond man didn’t poke and pry and send in reports. 

Yes, the soldier _knew_ the blond man’s name was Steve Rogers. He knew everything about the man that HYDRA had known; they had force-fed him the knowledge, as they usually did, until he could recite back the details with such a precision that he might as well had been a computer.  
Yes, the soldier _knew_ all about the man named Steve Rogers, everything, except of course, the parts where their pasts had collided.  
The soldier had tried — honest to god tried — to remember something, anything. The desperation in Steve Roger’s eyes, if not his voice, as he promised the soldier had known him, had sworn they had been allies, was almost too much to handle.  
The soldier’s allies were HYDRA’s allies, and Steve Rogers was not one of them.  
It had been such a shock when Steve Rogers had called out the name he associated with the soldier. The soldier didn’t have a name, at least not that he could remember. Ah, remembering; that was the damn punchline to the multi-year old HYDRA joke, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember. The End. 

Or it should’ve been. The soldier should’ve carried out his mission and reported back to base. His life would continue to go on as it always had, as he had remembered it. He would be wiped, then frozen, then torn from the icy slumber only to return in a matter of hours.  
Was that how life was supposed to go? The soldier had begun to have doubts after meeting the man on the bridge. But he never complained. He never defended himself. He was a puppet and his strings had now been cut.  
The problem was, as it is with all puppets, he needed strings to move, and he only had broken ones.  
The soldier finally looked up at Steve Rogers. His first thought was that he should’ve let the man drown; maybe let himself drown too.  
His second thought was that he had never seen such a heavy sadness in a pair of eyes before, except maybe when he had looked at himself in the reflection of the glasslike cage. The soldier hardly recognized himself; not like there was much to recognize, as he had no knowledge of what he looked like in the first place. The person staring back at him had looked so broken; he didn’t feel broken though. The soldier didn’t feel much of anything in particular; HYDRA had made sure of that.  
When Steve Rogers met the soldier’s stare, a smile broke out upon his lips. It quickly vanished when the soldier scowled blankly. Yes, letting them both drown would have been _much_ easier than this. Steve Rogers placed a hand against the glass and leaned his head, where it made a clunk.  
The sound shouldn’t have startled the soldier, but it did. He jolted back, hitting the wall behind him.

It didn’t hurt, of _course_ it didn’t, but Steve Rogers looked like he had just pulled a trigger.  
The soldier didn’t want Steve Roger’s pity. The soldier didn’t want anything at all.


	2. Hunger Grows in More Ways Than One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From every depth of good and ill  
> The mystery which binds me still:  
> From the torrent, or the fountain,  
> From the red cliff of the mountain,  
> From the sun that round me rolled  
> In its autumn tint of gold,  
> From the lightning in the sky  
> As it passed me flying by,  
> From the thunder and the storm,  
> And the cloud that took the form  
> (When the rest of Heaven was blue)  
> Of a demon in my view. 
> 
> ~Edgar Allen Poe

The second day, the soldier woke up screaming, falling to the floor only to heave up nothing, as he had eaten nothing in days; _weeks_ even. He’d simply lost track. He didn’t remember his dreams either, but the soldier figured it was probably better that way. A strangled sound escaped his throat as he curled up into himself, as if he could disappear completely if he just became small enough. His head began to pound; at first a dull throb, but then a pounding stampede of voices and flashes of color.  
These weren’t memories. These were just noise; noise that disrupted the static of his mutilated mind. The soldier held his head in his hands and bit his cheek. He couldn’t act weak, not here, not out in the open for everyone to see.  
The soldier heard a noise and stood up quickly; snapped to attention. It was a subconscious instinct, and one he hated.  
A door opened and there was Steve Rogers; a smile on his face and a tray in his hands.  
“I thought you might be hungry. I had to set up Jimmy from security with Caroline from forensics, just to get here.” His tone was far too cheerful this early in the morning. His voice only made the headache worse. Sharp colors and bright sounds beat around his brain like a boxing match.  
“I don’t _want_ your food.” The soldier spat, once the voices had died down a notch. Steve Rogers, stubborn Steve Rogers, handed him the bowl anyways.  
The soldier flung it across the room with a snarl. He pulled against the chains shackling him to the floor, his body aching to defy them. But they were strong, too strong, for the moment at least.  
“Let me go. Let me out! I’ll kill you, I swear. I’ll kill you!” He screams, his temporary sanity and self control shattering like the glass he wished to shatter around him.  
Too bad Steve Rogers never learned Russian.  
The blond man backed up against the opposite wall, looking hurt. The cold and dark part of the soldier relished that look as if he had been handed a prize.  
“Bucky- please, I don’t know what you’re saying.” He says softly.  
“Stop calling me that! Shut up!” The soldier screamed, his english sounding like a rusted iron gate.  
“It’s your name.” Steve Rogers doesn’t look at the soldier now.  
“It’s _his_ name, the one you know. I am not that man. I am not your friend, Steve Rogers. Do not think for a second, that I am.” The rage that flowed through the soldier’s veins was cooling into an icy river. He shivered and sat down abruptly on his cot. The headache was back and this time the flashes of color took shapes; but they were gone before the soldier could stitch them together.  
He glanced upwards to see Steve Rogers approach him again. All of the soldier’s defenses were activated. He might as well had still been wearing the mask HYDRA had forced him to wear. His expression was unreadable; wiped clean like a blank slate.  
“On the bridge, you hesitated when I called your name. I saw you hesitate- why?”  
“Your emotional attachment to the man names Barnes has led you to imagine things. I never hesitate.”  
A smile flickers across the man’s lips. An image is triggered, it juxtaposed itself just between the tip of the soldier’s tongue, and the back of his mind; unbearably close, yet just out of reach.  
The soldier swallows hard and forces the memory away; if a memory it even was.  
“We are going to get you back, Buck. I swear it.”  
Then, Steve walked away, his pace set with hope.  
“My name is not Bucky,” the soldier whispered to himself.


	3. There's More Than Previously Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I can stop one heart from breaking,  
> I shall not live in vain;  
> If I can ease one life the aching,  
> Or cool one pain,  
> Or help one fainting robin  
> Unto his nest again,  
> I shall not live in vain.
> 
> ~Emily Dickinson

The third day could have gone better.  
Steve had woken up early enough to make food for Bucky after taking a quick jog.  
He made waffles, and then hid them in his brown bagged lunch as he entered the compound where the soldier was being held.  
Fury had arranged a secluded and safe location for the place Steve tried so hard not to think of as a prison. SHIELD was no more, but that did not mean Fury had no resources.  
Tony Stark had once told the captain that everything special about him had come from a bottle; that he was a lab rat. At the time, the words hadn’t deeply affected Steve, not like they did now. Yeah, they had made him angry, but they hadn’t brushed away like the other things Stark said. These words had stayed and every night they crept into his brain and laced their claws through his mind.  
See, everything that made Steve the man he was, had been Bucky. He had been brave and kind before Bucky, of course, but the confident boy that had saved his life so many more times than he cared to admit, had pulled out the hidden strengths and characteristics in Steve that he had never known he had. And as of the moment, there was no Bucky, only a lab rat who had been used in the sickest ways. His friend, his best friend, a mindless assassin.  
It was unthinkable, to say the least. At first, Steve had wondered if his mind had grown old and diseased, though his body had stayed young. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing.  
The truth was too painful, at first. At first, the truth always was always too painful; Steve had learned that time and time again. He also knew that he preferred the cold honest untainted truth. Maybe he preferred to subject himself to pain, time and time again, as well.  
It wasn’t Stark’s fault, of course. They had been under a lot of pressure, and Steve didn’t think he actually meant it. But the words had stuck, just as the words of so many others back before Stark’s time.  
As Steve walked to the compound, he recalled the events of the past few months.  
There were gods, and he had met two, though he told himself there was only one god.  
The world had changed, and maybe, so had religion. Church had been a big part of Steve–and Bucky’s- life, back before the war. Bucky rarely agreed with the sermons and yet, he never missed a Sunday.  
That was, until Bucky changed. He had always been charismatic, but he had never pursued girls. Not until this one night he had gotten drunk and had stumbled home, pulling Steve into a hug and crying for so long and so terribly. Steve had asked him over and over what was wrong. Bucky had told him nothing, he just kept crying until he fell asleep.  
The next morning came, and he acted like he didn’t even know what Steve was talking about. The next night, he started bringing home girls.  
From then on, it was an endless spiral of Bucky being with girls, or working out by the railroad. He would come home drunk or dirty or exhausted, or all three, each night. Steve began to worry about him.  
There came a day when Bucky didn’t come home. So, Steve went out to look for him.  
It was late in a December, and the clothes he had thrown on, were no match for the chill.  
Steve had gone to all of Bucky’s usual places, but he was no where to be seen.  
At some point through the night, Steve just couldn’t stand- it was so cold; the kind that cut through his thin jacket and slid under his skin. He collapsed in the snow, on the side of a bar, his body numb from cold.  
And there had been Bucky, running towards him, just as his eyelids closed. 

Steve had caught pneumonia the third time that year and for once he had been grateful the disease had taken over his body. Bucky didn’t leave his side for a single moment, unless it was to get Steve something warmer to wear, or hotter to drink, or another rag to put on his forehead.  
It was just like it had been before Bucky had changed. People often got the impression Steve was selfless and brave. In reality, he thought he was just the opposite. 

Steve reached the doors of the compound and patched in the code, placing his thumb in the receptor. The light flashed green and the doors slid open. He walked briskly towards the sector that his friend was being held in.  
At first, he just observed Bucky from afar; he was asleep, curled into himself, chains twisted around his arms. His cheekbones had started to poke out more than what Steve considered healthy; Bucky looked liked he was caving in on himself. Self destruction. He didn’t look peaceful, like he used to when he slept. No, all the aches and worries that lined his face when he was awake, were present still.  
It physically hurt Steve to have Bucky locked up like a criminal. He was not a criminal. He was not responsible. Not in Steve’s mind, at least. No, in Steve’s mind, Bucky was the farthest thing from a criminal. After all this time, Bucky was here. With him. So close, yet so unreachable. That was the worst part. He had the appearance of his best friend back, but the mind of a ghost.  
Sometimes, he just couldn’t handle it; the thought that Bucky had gone through all these years of torture. Steve wished with every part of his soul that it had been him instead; that Bucky had gone on and married a nice girl and had been happy.  
Bucky had shown up in the worst way possible, just as Steve had almost barely started to move on from his old life and all that came with it. He shuddered and tried not to think about that. He had Bucky and he should’ve been grateful; having Bucky was all that mattered.  
As he approached the door separating his friend from himself, Bucky jolted up, his eyes as wild as his untamed hair; his pupils blown dark. His ragged breaths were audible even from outside the glass; air that didn’t fill his lungs the way he needed them to. Bucky sounded like he was drowning.  
Steve couldn’t wait any longer.  
He ran in, ran to his best and broken friend, and pulled him into a hug, holding him as close as Bucky would let him.  
Bucky’s breathing normalized, and he didn’t let Steve hold him that close for long.  
“What the hell are you doing?” He yells shakily, shoving Steve away; harder than Steve had calculated.  
He flew against the wall, rejection hurting more than physical pain.  
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-you were just- I was worried and-“  
“You were worried about me?” Bucky’s eyes are cold and empty.  
“You’re my best friend-“  
“You never searched for me, not after you finished that mission, did you?”  
“Bucky, I-“  
“You claim this James Barnes is your best friend, that you’re with him until the end, but where were you? Where have you been all the years that he maybe remembered your name?” Bucky’s voice is so soft, so quiet, yet so incredibly wrong.  
“I got low, Buck. I was angry. I-I went down. Stark looked for you for ages, but he-“  
“I don’t give a fuck about Stark. I’m asking about you!” Bucky’s angry. His hands are clenched into tight fists, one metal, one flesh.  
“Did you-did you remember something? Did you remember-“  
“I remember a lot of things, like who I am, Steve Rogers. You are the one who is trying to rewrite me now. Not HYDRA. I am not your friend, and if I ever was, I’m sorry. You have America fooled, Captain. You are no hero. You are a coward. You have not fooled me.”  
“No, Buck, don’t say that. Please.” Steve was kneeling by Bucky’s bed.  
“My name is not Bucky. Do not call me that again, or I will-“ Bucky stopped and a confused look passed across his face.  
“Bu-Soldier?” Steve slowly stands up, setting down his lunch.  
Bucky looks at Steve in even more confusion. Correction; he looks through Steve.  
“Why am I here?” he whispers, “This isn’t the usual room. Where am I?” His voice is heavy with a Russian accent.  
“I’m Steve. Where are you normally?”  
“Steve,” he says it like he’s testing the name out, “you are American, no?”  
“Yes, I am American.” Steve’s voice shook, against his wishes.  
“Are you scared of me, America?” There’s a playful look in his eyes, but it’s not a look Bucky ever gave.  
“No. I’m not scared of you.”  
“You should be,” he says as he blinks his steel blue eyes, “you really should be.” He sinks onto his back and shuts his eyes. Asleep.  
Steve waited a moment, gathering his wits- he had no idea what had just happened.  
Bucky mumbled something under his breath, but then his face went slack.  
Steve pulled the thin covers over his friend and was struck with a horrible sense of deja vu. How many times had the situation been reversed and it had been Steve in bed, mumbling nonsense? Too many.  
So he waited, for hours, for Bucky to wake up. He was prepared for another nightmare. He was not prepared for what actually happened.  
Bucky’s eyes flew open just as Steve had decided to leave.  
“Don’t leave me, America.” He whispers. Steve turned around and saw Bucky upright.  
“Don’t get Pierce. I promise to be good, see?” He takes off his shirt and lies down, “I won’t scream this time.”  
This was not the first time Steve had seen Bucky shirtless. But this was not Bucky’s body. This was a map of scars, roads of cuts and bruises that were barely healed, stitches that cascaded over his chest like rivers, chords of muscle running beneath his skin, rippling as he moved. And then there was his arm. It looked as though it had been welded onto his shoulder; just where the metal met the skin, a jagged line of scar tissue laced around his shoulder. Steve met his friends eyes in horror.  
“I don’t work for HYDRA. My name is Steve Rogers and you _know_ me. You’re not at HYDRA anymore. You’re in a secure compound. You’re safe, soldier.”  
In a split second, the haze that surrounded Bucky’s eyes vanished, replaced with a predatorial gaze.  
“What are you looking at? Have you never seen scars, Steve Rogers?” His voice was mocking and it hurt. It hurt and Steve wasn’t even going to deny that.  
“Not on you.” Steve stood up and handed Bucky the brown sac lunch.  
“Eat, or don't, that’s _your_ choice.”

He walks away angrily, slamming the door and running up and as far away as he possibly can from the thing with Bucky’s face and Bucky’s eyes.  
On his way up, he thought he heard a sob, but he dismissed it, knowing that the best thing for the moment was to leave Bucky alone. He obviously wanted to be alone, right?  
He was leaving Bucky to his own demons, and for that, the Captain would never forgive himself.


	4. Old Ties, New Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forlorn! the very word is like a bell  
> To toll me back from thee to my sole self!  
> Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well  
> As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.  
> Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades  
> Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
> Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep  
> In the next valley-glades:  
> Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
> Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
> 
> ~John Keats

The fourth day, Steve didn’t want to see Bucky. No-correction- he wanted to see Bucky more than anything, but he did not want to see the ghost of the man he once knew.  
Instead, he slept in, missing his usual morning jog, and slept past his usual breakfast, and would’ve slept the whole day, if his phone hadn’t started to ring. At first, he just ignored it, but it just kept on ringing.  
He finally picked up.  
“Hello?” His voice was raspy from sleep.  
“Steve, great, nice to hear your patriotic voice. Okay, well I need you here in New York. Like, now, pronto.”  
“Stark, I can’t- I’m in the middle of something and-“  
“The Winter Soldier, yeah, I know. Bring him along; I built a compound just for you two in the new tower. It’s pretty great, but I don’t want to brag. Actually, I do-bragging is my thing; it’s amazing. Pepper was just telling me how-“  
“You knew about Bucky?” Steve’s voice is barely a whisper, but it’s full of pent up anger.  
“Well, yeah. It was on the news, grandpa. Times are different now. Gossip spreads like-“  
“How did you know I was with him? How did you know who he was?”  
For once, Tony is silent.  
“I-I had my suspicions. I’m a genius, remember? It wasn’t that hard to figure out. Confusing, yes. Hard, no. I sent your tickets to the airport already; two first class on a private jet, courtesy of, well, me. And, I’d hurry to that compound Fury gave you. I have a feeling it’s security is about to go down in three, two,”  
Steve had already hung up, grabbed his shield, and was running to the compound. 

Stark had been right. Alarms were blaring and Steve didn’t bother with the finger scan; the door was unlocked.  
He raced as fast as his legs could go, which was quick fast, to Bucky’s cell.  
Steve’s best friend just sat there, a confused yet amused look on his face.  
Steve grabbed the key to the chains that bound Bucky to the floor and crashed through the glass, unlocking his friend.  
“We have to go. Now.”  
For the first time, in a long time, Bucky didn’t question him. 

As soon as they had secured the flight and gotten passed the security snafu; Bucky’s arm had come no where near acceptable to passing the metal detectors (it had taken a few autographs and a lot of explaining to get through it) Steve had planted himself in the opposite seat across from Bucky, who had just opened the window and stared out of it. His hair had gotten impossibly long, and it now hung across his eyes and touched the tip of his cheeks and nose.  
“What should I call you?” Steve suddenly asked.  
Bucky didn’t avert his gaze from the window, he just sighed. The engines had started and it wasn’t until they were above the clouds that Bucky answered.  
“Dmitri. Someone once called me Dmitri.”  
“Dmitri. Okay.” He could do that. He could, right? For Bucky.  
“Why did you come back for me? You should’ve left me there. I could kill you, you know. I still want to.” Bucky’s voice had no hint of malice.  
“Do you? You’re my best- you’re the only person in this whole world who knows me. I know you don’t remember yet, but, in time, the doctors said-“  
“They obviously don’t know anything about the Red Room. There is no before. There is only after.”  
“The Red Room?”  
Bucky-Dmitri, finally looks away from the window and at Steve. There was no protective outer wall- there was no emotionless void in the eyes of his friend now. No, his eyes were full of agony and something else; remembering.  
“If Hell were on earth, it would be there.” He said somberly.  
Steve didn’t exactly know how to respond to that.  
“I wish it had been me.” Steve whispered, to himself, more than to Bucky.  
“Then you are a fool. Even I would not wish that place upon anyone. Especially not you.” His words hang in the air like leaves in autumn, slowly fluttering down to the earth.  
Dmitri looks at him intensely, as if he were studying Steve. It was damn ironic, because that was the way Steve used to look at him, right before he’d sketch him on paper or a napkin or whatever he could get his hands on. Bucky loved to be Steve’s model- said it made him feel useful. Sometimes he’d laugh when Steve showed him the final product, telling him that he’d got it all wrong. That his mouth looked like that, or his eyes had looked that way. But he knew Bucky loved them- sometimes, Steve would catch him going through his art journal and being completely mesmerized by what was in there. Bucky’s steel blue eyes seemed to cut through the surface of Steve’s skin, where his gaze clawed its way into Steve’s heart.  
“We are going to a man named Tony Stark’s residence. It’s not exactly a traditional home, but he promised that-“  
“I can’t go there.” There was a sudden panic that had over taken Bucky’s eyes. He clenched his jaw and gripped the handles of the seat until his knuckles turned white.  
“What are you talking about?”  
“Stark-he sounds-I feel like I-“ he shakes his head and starts talking in Russian. His speech speeds up and he’s yelling at Steve now- but there’s nothing Steve can say. He felt so useless, so helpless.  
“I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m sorry.” He says softly.  
Dmitri brings his flesh hand up to the bridge of his nose and pinches, like he was having a bad headache. He brings his metal hand up to his temples and holds it there.  
“Dmitri?”  
Bucky whimpers and pulls his knees to his chest, his eyes shutting tight.  
He stayed like that for the rest of the flight. 

Within a few hours, they arrived at the airport, where a black car was waiting for them. Steve guided Bucky in, who was walking in a daze, and then got in himself.  
The Avengers tower wasn’t far, and they were there in a few minutes.  
Steve was nervous. He wasn’t able to place a finger on exactly what was making him so shaky.  
Bucky got out of the car, and Steve followed.  
They reached the door and it opened automatically.  
“Welcome home, Captain. Hello, Soldier.” So this was JARVIS. Tony never stopped talking about his machines, but it was interesting to actually meet one.  
And then there was Natasha. Her hair had gotten shorter since they last had seen each other, her eyes were bare of any makeup, yet she was as beautiful as ever. She walked towards Steve slowly, sauntering with confidence as she gave both Steve and Bucky a once over.  
Steve looked at Bucky, who was frozen- his mouth open slightly, his eyes as wide as the full moon.  
“You okay?” Steve whispered to his friend, who nodded, then shook his head as if to clear away a thought.  
“Steve,” she glances at Bucky, “and company, this way. We’re having a meeting upstairs.”  
Natasha was dressed in black leggings and a large t-shirt that read “Watch your back” with two stick men; one holding the other’s back.  
“It’s all I could find. Tony has an odd sense of humor.” She says, not looking back at Steve. It still amazed him how she could do that; sense when people were looking at her. Steve was amazed with everything she could do everything, actually. Steve had always respected women, god did he respect them. But he had never been truly in awe of one until he met Natasha. After D.C, he had thought he had formed a closer bond with her, but after the incident, she had vanished, no trace, for a few months, until now.  
Steve snapped out of his flashback when someone nudged his shoulder. He was surprised to find it had been Bucky. His friend gave a quick nod in the direction of Natasha.  
Steve’s cheeks flushed as he looked up slowly at her.  
“Am I boring you, Steve?” She asks, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She must've been talking to him.  
“No ma’am. I just-“  
“Excuses, excuses, Rogers. Even Barnes was paying more attention than you.” She said it with a smile, but Steve noticed something behind her eyes; a secret. Steve also notices how Bucky doesn’t object to her calling him Barnes. He doesn’t even react.  
They are in an elevator now, and Steve can’t help but feel claustrophobic. He had been surrounded by people he thought were his friends, but then tried to kill him, the last time he was on an elevator. He tapped his foot impatiently.  
Bucky nudged him again, and Steve stopped tapping, watching as Natasha gave him a worried look. The elevator dinged, and they filed out.  
They entered a large rec room with a pool table and sofas and a mini bar. Of course Tony had put a bar there.  
He spotted Sam. For a moment, Steve was amazed that he was there, but then he remembered that Tony’s resources were unlimited and he could find and persuade anyone to go or do anything, probably even Sam. But something told Steve that it hadn’t taken a lot of persuasion.  
“Long time no see, Cap.” He exclaimed warmly, walking over and hugging Steve. Steve sighed and held the shorter man.  
“Oh yeah, what’s it been- a week? Have you improved your times, yet?” Steve joked. Sam shot him a glare.  
“I take that as a no.” He chuckled, feeling just a small bit better.  
From the corner of his eye, Steve noticed Bucky retreat and sit on the couch farthest from civilization.  
And then Tony walked in.  
“Ah, lets do a head count, Bird 1, Bird 2, Capsicle, Amnesiac Assassin, Ginger, Big Green Fighting Machine, and- dammit, where the Hell did Thor go.”  
“Just so you know, she’s not a ginger. Anyone with eyes could tell the difference, Stark.” Clint calls down. Natasha rolls her eyes.  
“I’ll work on it.” Stark retorts.  
Steve hadn’t even noticed Clint, who was sitting on the window sill.  
“Where have you been?” Steve called to him. Clint rolled his shoulders and sighed.  
“Nat, tell him where I was. I’m not in the mood.” 

Natasha motioned for Steve to sit by her, which he did.  
“Clint was in China. All I know is that he stopped this mutated Lizard outbreak- he claims there were Chinese dragons, but he’s been through a rough year. If he brings it up, just play along.”  
Steve nodded and stifled a laugh.  
“What’s so funny?” Clint called down.  
“Nothing.” Natasha and Steve stammered at the same time.  
And then Steve remembered Bucky. He mentally slapped himself for forgetting about him in the first place. He hadn’t been as talkative after the plane ride, which wasn’t saying much, since he wasn’t all that talkative to begin with.  
He saw Stark standing over Bucky, talking about something.If Stark dared do anything to annoy Bucky, Steve would–the outcome would not be pleasant.  
Steve got up and approached them.  
“What’s going on, here?” He asked through his teeth.  
Tony turned and shrugged.  
“I was asking him if he needed anything, but then he got this murderous look in his eyes and sort of kept staring at me.”  
Bucky was staring a bit murderously, Steve had to admit.  
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” He asks quietly.  
Bucky clenches his jaw and moves his head slowly side to side as a no. Steve felt Tony tense up.  
“What can I do.”  
“So many voices. So many.” He voice was a barely audible whisper.  
Steve takes a breath.  
“Can everybody be quiet for a moment?” He yells. The room silences. All eyes are on Steve, who turns back to Bucky.  
“Is that better?” He asks. Bucky shakes his head repeatedly.  
“Not out there,” he’s shivering now, “in here.” He brings a shaking hand to his forehead. Tony winces, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve shrugs it off.  
“Is there a room I can take him too- somewhere quiet?” The desperation running through Steve’s veins, is evident in his voice.  
“Floor 5’s all yours, Cap.” Tony says softly, kindly. How unlike him, Steve thought bitterly.  
Natasha bumps in to him and he feels something in his pocket.  
“He’ll need it.” She whispers. Steve sends her a silent thanks.  
He pulls Bucky up and walks him to the elevator.  
“It hurts, Steve.” Bucky whispers, clutching on to Steve’s arm.  
“I know it does. I know.” 

Natasha had slipped him four small pills. Bucky had taken them with no water, he never did. The thought made Steve want to smile, but the movement wouldn’t come.  
By the time the elevator reached the fifth floor, Bucky was already half asleep, woozy from the effects of the drugs.

Bucky slept soundly that night for perhaps the first time in over 50 years. Steve however, didn’t.

***

Tony didn’t try to be an asshole, unless of course he was trying to be-which was about 75% of the time. 87%, if you asked Pepper.  
It’s just, Tony was sick of being the asshole. At least, around the Avengers, he was. They had fought alongside him when he was strong, and they held him up when he was weak.  
Tony didn’t have friends. He wouldn’t exactly call the Avengers friendly, but he supposed that they were the closest he would get to having true friends.  
They weren’t after his money or his resources or his life. Sure, they had been thrown together in a half stitch effort to save the world and whatever, but there had only been a 24% success rate- Tony had done the calculations.  
Despite how incredibly skilled the other five Avengers were, there was no way that what they accomplished was possible without some other factor.  
Tony had decided to be nostalgic and sum up the whole “saving of the universe thing” to strength plus courage plus suicidal tendencies plus friendship, or trust. Whatever.  
He had even built a goddamned tower, for them; his friends, his allies, his family.  
Tony had never wanted to belong somewhere so bad. Well, technically the Avengers weren’t a there, but you get the idea. He would never admit it, but the fact that he had been elected as part of the Avengers Initiative had made him more nervous than anyone knew. He felt truly as though he didn’t deserve it, and maybe he was right. He wasn’t special. He was just a man with a suit. Of course he had other qualities; playboy, genius, billionaire, blah blah blah, but none of that mattered to him. What mattered were the qualities he had that made him compatible with the other Avengers. He wanted them to respect him as much as he respected them, and most of all, Steve.  
Tony had grown up hearing all about the man who basically wore the American Flag and kicked Nazi ass for breakfast. Tony’s first five birthdays had been Capsicle themed, and he had loved it. On the rare occasions his father was in a good mood, and was actually home, the great tales of Captain America and his Howling Commandos would fill the dinner table. Tony would never dare to admit it, but those cards Coulson had bought?– well a few of them had been from him. He had also heard about Barnes. But his father would always get a distant look in his eyes; a look that worried Tony, when he talked about the Captain’s best friend.  
He figured it out soon enough that the look in his father’s eyes, was guilt; Howard Stark blamed himself for not being able to find Barnes, and not being able to save Steve. Tony recognized that look in himself often enough.  
And then Tony had met Steve. He was everything Tony had ever pictured him to be. Except, there was a look in his eyes that Howard had failed to mention; the Captain seemed to carry the weight of something heavy on his shoulders. Tony had tried to crack a joke, something about pilates, but there was no laugh, only a confused gaze. So Tony had tried again, calling him a Capsicle. This seemed to hit a nerve in Steve. Howard had always gone on and on about Steve’s sense of humor, Steve’s wit, Steve’s intelligence. However, the Steve he knew didn’t seem to be anything other than a steel hearted soldier. At first.  
Things got worse between them as tension rose; Tony said some things he didn’t mean. He couldn’t control what came out of his mouth when his walls were up. And then Steve had said something that had stuck with Tony until this day; I know guys with none of that, worth ten of you.  
There was such malice, such anger in his voice, that Tony had closed down completely, not caring what he said or who he hurt after that.  
Now, he realized that Steve had been talking about Barnes. He just knew it. They had left on a good note, however, though that didn’t seem to be much of a use now.  
And it was true; Tony was not a great person. Tony might’ve had all the money in the world, but his heart was dysfunctional….literally. He wondered if Steve looked at him and saw his father-if he saw a ghost. Tony knew that Steve probably didn’t care about anything besides Barnes, at the moment, but even a little hint of gratitude for the place to stay, would’ve been enough.  
And then there was Barnes. Barnes who had been the second most talked about person in the Stark household, even if he had been talked about with a bit of tension. But from what Tony’s father had said, no one had been sharper or wittier than Barnes and that he needed Steve to balance him out, just as Steve needed Barnes to bring out the spitfire everyone knew he had. But this was not that Barnes, and Tony had a slow and building worry about how this Barnes would effect Steve. Tony understood that his mind had been rewritten over and over again, but he still looked for a shred of the man that once was. He didn’t find anything. And if that was truly horrifying for Tony, someone who had never known the real Barnes, he couldn’t imagine what it was doing to Steve.  
Tony had thought Steve was going to punch him when, though he knew logically that Steve would never hurt someone without a cause, he had been talking to Barnes. Steve wouldn't of course, he was too chivalrous.  
Anyways, Tony had bigger problems now, bigger than wanting Steve’s acceptance.  
There had been a reason, obviously, that Tony had taken it upon himself to call together earth’s mightiest heroes. But he didn’t quite know how to break it to them.


	5. Women Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this has taken so long. This is a really short chapter, so let's just call it a pre-chapter. It's written in Nat's pov so that's a plus. (to all the lovely people who leave comments and kudos, thank you, thank you so so much. Feedback is the best thing.) Hope you like it

"I'm worried about Steve," Natasha drums her painted fingernails on the glass coffee table, her legs tightly crossed, her eyes fixing on each of the other people in the room. When Steve had vanished upstairs with Bucky, she had called the remaining Avengers for a meeting. 

"Because of Barnes?" That was Banner. He had been silent the whole time that Natasha had almost forgotten he was there at all; a hard to accomplish action. 

She pursed her lips as an answer. Looking around, she realized that a small, ever so small, but growing part of her had missed these people. She was getting soft. This was a problem. Natasha lived for people to fear and respect her; she needed to provoke those emotions in order to function. Contrary to the popular belief, Natasha did have feelings. In fact, she had a theory that she had more feelings than the average person. This was because she had experienced things that most people never had. The Winter Soldier had feelings too, or he had, once. She didn’t believe that you could ever truly delete a person’s mind. It always found a way back. However, the Soldier hadn’t even recognized her, and if he had, he didn’t let on. Maybe there was a point of no return. Maybe HYDRA had done to him what they couldn’t do to her.  
She didn’t think so. 

"None of you were there. You didn't see the Steve that Sam and I saw. He was not the person you all know. He was reckless; Barnes makes him reckless. That's what all the history books got wrong. Barnes isn't his safety net, he makes Steve vulnerable. Steve would go to Hell and back just for him. We might know the old Barnes' motives, but I can promise we don't know the Winter Soldier's," and she knew the Winter Soldier, not Barnes, better than anyone in the building, including Steve. But she couldn't say that of course, not yet. The timing wasn't right. 

"Steve seems fine, he's capable of handling himself," Clint responded. Natasha wanted to grab Clint by the ear and snap, “Really Clint, really? You want to argue with me now, of all possible times to argue?", but she remained composed, for snapping wouldn't help her cause at all. Instead she gave him an icy smile. Clint shrugged in surrender.  
Luckily, Sam was there to the rescue. 

"Man, he almost died. Willingly. If the Winter Soldier hadn’t had a moment of clarity and dragged Cap to the shore, we’d have lost him all over again. The way he was; that was not the Captain America I read about. Barnes shot him multiple times and Steve didn't even fight back. In my experience, that’s called a suicide mission. I’ve been around a lot of PTSD soldiers in my life. My job is helping them. Let me just say that the worst kind of hurt is the kind that you don’t admit until it gets so bad you can’t control it. If the Winter Soldier snaps again, I'm not sure how Steve will be able to handle it,” there was an urgency in Sam’s voice that left the Avengers, only momentarily, a bit paler in the cheeks. 

“Do you not think that we would notice if Steve was not in the best of places?” Thor asked, the grip on his hammer quite tight. 

It hadn't even been a year since Steve had been found in the ice, or a year since he had lost his whole world, which, Natasha thought, revolved mainly around a certain best friend. This was what worried her. Steve was strong, but she would know better than most that being ripped out of your old life and having a new one forged for you as you tried to forget the past was unbearably hard. What makes it worse is when a ghost comes back from that past, just as Barnes had. Perhaps the worst thing was that Steve did not cry when he was sad. Instead, he smiled, which, if you asked Natasha, was all the more worse. He was an actor of sorts, but even if he could fool others, he wasn’t fooling her.  
The world wasn't ready to understand that their American hero was still so young and still unhappy.  
So, to answer Thor’s question, no-no she did not think they would notice. Steve lived for others, always had, and she thought that it was about time to start living for himself. 

"All I'm saying is that we need to keep an eye on them, both of them. Barnes is more capable than you think, and Steve,” she paused and locked eyes with each individual in the room, stressing her point even more, "Steve is the more vulnerable than you know."


	6. One Thousand Yard Stares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay thank you all for bearing that short chapter. Here's a longer one that may be a bit confusing, but I hope not. If you have any questions feel free to leave a comment and I'll answer it as best I can.

Bucky woke up slowly. It was like walking through a fog; you went carefully so you didn’t trip.  
His eyes fluttered open and he saw Steve sitting against the wall, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. Bucky didn’t know where he was or why he was there.  
He didn’t care.  
“Steve-Stevie, wake up.” He whispered to his friend.  
Steve’s eyes flew open and he sat up stiffly.  
“Dmitri?” He asked timidly, rubbing his eyes.  
Bucky laughed.  
“Who the hell is that? Where are we, Rogers?”  
Steve looked like he had seen a ghost; his eyes opened wide and his skin turned the color it had one cold December not too long ago. Maybe he was sick again, maybe even the serum had its faults.  
“Bucky?” His voice broke as he backed up against the wall.  
“What’s up your ass? Yeah, it’s me? Who else would it be?” He didn’t understand Steve’s confusion.  
In an instant, Steve was up, kneeling by the bed Bucky had propped himself up on.  
“Bucky-“ Steve’s voice trembled as he took Bucky’s hands in his own and gripped them tight, “Jesus.”  
“Nah, I ain’t no heavenly figure; seriously, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
Steve took a breath and opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he had no idea how.  
“W-what’s the last thing you remember, Buck.” Steve whispered. God, Bucky had forgotten how damn blue Steve’s eyes were; they reminded him of the open sky, out in the country. They reminded him of freedom, which was cheesy, but true. Bucky could look into Steve’s eyes and see hope, and in the end, hope was what freedom was.  
“I remember-“ Bucky froze, the gears in his mind whirring to life as if they had been rusted for a long long time, “Oh god, Steve, all I remember is waking up. I know you, I know us, but I don’t–”  
Bucky didn’t like to panic, especially in front of Steve. In fact, Bucky hated looking weak in front of anyone in general. He closely studied Steve’s crystal clear eyes, only to realize they were not the eyes he remembered. No, these eyes were lost. These eyes staring back at him had seen things that they were never meant to see. Who was the man staring back at him now? It was not the Steve Rogers he knew. No, this man had stolen his best friend’s voice, his best friend’s face, but he couldn’t fool Bucky- the man in front of him, this imposter, had screwed up Steve’s eyes all wrong.  
“Who are you now?”Bucky’s voice was clipped and brittle as autumn leaves.  
Steve’s face collapsed in a number of seconds, which was only the second most painful thing. The first was that those blue eyes– they were no longer filled with the hope Bucky remembered. They were filled with a vacancy that was hard to look at.  
“I’m Steve Rogers. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You know me. I swear you know me.” Steve’s voice was foreign now too. His eyes were heavy with the sadness his voice held.  
“I know who you are, punk. I know who you are. You just look a little different, I guess.”  
He wrapped his arms around Steve and pulled him close. Bucky didn’t remember anything specifically at the moment, but he knew he knew. He knew he knew Steve, just as well as he knew his own name.  
“Bucky you don’t understand-“  
“What happened to you Stevie? Where’s the boy I left in Brooklyn?” he whispered, smoothing down Steve’s hair that stuck up in wisps. Steve was trembling beneath his hands. Steve had never ever done that, unless it was involuntary; chills that ran down his spine due to fever, or the flu, or his muscles so tired from standing, that he had to sit down-just for a moment. It was always just a moment with Steve, no matter what the circumstance was. Fighting bullies on the street- just a moment Buck, I’ll be alright, just give me a sec. Coughing for hours after taking a jog from the market and back- I’m okay, Bucky, let me have a second to catch my breath. Not being able to hear what he was saying; one moment Buck, I- I just can’t hear you. Steve’s eyesight and hearing had gotten worse through the years when Steve wasn’t the hero he was today. Correction; when Steve wasn’t the hero he was today, to the world. Steve had always been Bucky’s hero. Always.  
“Why are you shaking?” Bucky’s voice was so quiet, so soft, he had almost hoped Steve wouldn’t hear. But Steve’s hearing had become near perfect since his body had become just about perfect. Bucky had been just peachy with Steve’s body before, not that he minded the new one.  
Steve only held Bucky tighter. There, on his knees, clutching Bucky around the waist, Bucky’s hands intertwined around his chest, Steve had never looked more fragile, which was saying a lot.  
And about the time Bucky made that epiphany, was about the time he noticed that he had a metal arm.  
His first thought was that he had been imagining it, so he unwrapped it from Steve and brought it up to his face, real close and personal. It was metal alright. He began to notice a lot of things after that, like the fact that his hair was longer than he ever would want it, the fact that everything hurt, the fact that he had no idea where he was, or why he was there.  
Bucky’s pulse raced and his breathing sped up. He untangled himself from Steve and pushed himself back, back against the headboard of the bed, back away from Steve. Where was his arm? Why couldn’t he remember? When had Steve gotten so big? What was going on and where the hell was he? Who the fuck was Tony and why did he have a fucking metal arm? It didn’t make sense, it didn’t add up. Something was missing, something was not right. Why didn’t he know? Why, why, why?  
“Bucky-“  
“Get-get away from me. Please. I need a second, Steve. Just a second.” Bucky’s voice was drifting away from him as the words of confusion and feeling of absolute terror settled into his veins like a slow and thorough poison.  
Suddenly he couldn’t quite place a finger on his name, nor who the man in front of him was, only that his name was Steve. Steve Rogers.  
Steve Rogers, he thought, had the saddest eyes in the whole entire world.  
They didn’t used to look like that, he thought, as his world went dark and he was pulled into the omnipresent grey.  
***  
“Come on, soldier, let’s go. You have to eat.” Steve coaxed Bucky up off the bed.  
“I’m not hungry.” Bucky growled, but his body showed a different story.  
“Please. Please eat.” Steve poured every ounce of desperation into his voice. Bucky’s cold eyes seemed to warm a little. Barely.  
“You look shaken up.” Bucky says plaintitively as they travel down in the elevator.  
“I suppose I do.” Steve whispers, rubbing his eyes roughly, as if he could rub away all the stress and utter heartbreak that he had just experienced.  
No, not heartbreak like some sappy love story. His heart literally felt as though it had been ripped apart. He had gotten his friend back, but for such a bitterly brief moment that he secretly vainly almost wished it hadn’t happened at all.  
And now the stranger had settled back into Bucky’s mind, stealing him from Steve.  
He didn’t know much about the brain, or how it worked-he was no pyschologist- but he did know that whatever was going on in Bucky’s mind, was something like a battle, or so he supposed. He decided that Banner would know more. He needed Banner to know more.  
They arrived to the smell of something good and familiar; pancakes.  
Back before the war, food had been hard enough to come by. On the rarest of rare occasions, Bucky would have saved enough money for a single pancake, which he had bought at a little diner in town (the diner was long gone, Steve had gone by just to check).  
Bucky would split it down the middle, but if you asked Steve, Bucky always cut one side a little bigger than the other; the side he gave Steve. Steve didn’t complain after the first time it happened because of the hurt look in Bucky’s eyes. He didn’t know why it was such a big deal, but he didn’t complain about it again.  
Yes, the world had changed so immensely. Steve sometimes found himself saving a section of his meals to take home and keep; for when he ran out. But he didn’t run out; no one ran out of food these days, unless they were homeless. But even some of the homeless weren’t truly homeless. He had seen one shed its disguise and walk home, cash and change jingling in the jar he had placed in his coat pocket. This had upset Steve. It was just ridiculous; he remembered starvation as well as he remembered his name. The fact that people tended to romanticize the past; truly unraveled him.  
“You can’t tell me you honestly can resist the smell of those pancakes,” Steve nudged Bucky gently, so gently, and attempted to smile. The truth was, he didn’t feel like smiling at all, but he had to put on a show, as he always had.  
Bucky looked at him with weary eyes.  
“Maybe I’ll have a half.” He whispered, his hands shoving into his pockets.  
Steve couldn’t hide his excitement. This had to mean something, maybe Bucky remembered something.  
“You know,” he starts as they enter the kitchen, “when we were kids, you used to-“  
“Don’t. Just don’t.” Bucky snapped coarsely, dispersing the ounce of hope that had lodged itself in Steve’s throat.  
Steve didn’t get a chance to apologize, because Tony appeared with a smug smile on his whitened teeth and a- what was it called- a tablet, in his hands.  
“Well, if it isn’t the golden oldies; why are you two up so early? Usually it’s just me and Romanoff; I try to get her to sleep more but…you know how those Russian’s are. Take away their iron will, and you’ll be left with their rage, am I right?”  
***  
Tony had realized his mistake just before the metal arm had sent him flying backward into the newly painted and barely dried wall. Who needed a Mjolinr when you had a freaking metal arm?  
It was almost funny until Tony watched a truly horrific thing take place. Barnes’ face contorted into a cold emotionless gaze and he stepped forward, right in front and directly above Tony. Everything about the Captain’s friend that Tony had seen the previous day, was gone. This was not the look, not the stance, of a broken man. This was a vacant empty and ruthless person. But the scariest thing about him, was the fact that he was smiling, a smug and sardonic smirk that did not belong on his face.  
“Uh, Cap, your friend’s really looking murderous. Like, really, really. “ Tony tried not to sound as uncomfortable as he felt.  
“Do not insult her,” Barnes said, his voice heavily accented. This was not the guy Tony had met last night.  
Steve was just standing there, his lips parted and a horrified look on his face. Bucky spun towards him and flipped in the air, kicking Steve in the temple and sending him flying across the room where he slammed into the wall and slid down, his eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t move.  
Bucky turned back to Tony and flicked up his eyebrows as if to say, what are you gonna do now?  
Tony knew what he should’ve done five minutes ago, which was call on the suit. Except, he could’’t because he had destroyed them all. Damn it, this, Tony thought waxing nostalgic, is what happens when you try to do a good thing.  
Whoever could knock out Steve had some serious mojo and was not to be trifled with. But, screw it; he wanted to try something else first.  
“Yeah, you’re probably going to beat the shit out of me and all, which I totally respect, but my question is why? Who are you going to do it for? Yourself, or someone else, perhaps a certain organization that-“  
Bucky gripped his throat and brought Tony’s face up close and personal to his. Tony wished Barnes looked like a rabid dog, but the truth was Barnes looked impossibly controlled. However , Tony saw, despite the fact that, well, there was a hand around his throat and his oxygen supply was depleating rapidly, something small and scared in Barnes’ eyes. Something that screamed for help. But it disappeared quickly.  
“You talk to much. Just like your father.” Barnes’ whispered behind his teeth. This set something off in Tony.  
“So that’s what this is about, then. Old family ties? Well, buddy, sorry to break it to you, but no one can badmouth my dad except me.”  
Barnes’ eyes narrowed and he suddenly released Tony, his breath turning ragged and his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Tony tried not to gasp for air and give Barnes the satisfaction of knowing he hurt him.  
“Did he ever…talk about-“ Barnes swallows and doesn’t continue. Tony was still gasping for air and massaging his throat. Damn, Bucky had literally taken his breath away.  
“Did he talk about you?” Finally, Natasha had decided to intervene.  
“I love how you waited until after I’d gotten choked-almost died, you know.” Tony snapped at her.  
She placed a hand on Barnes’ shoulder and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. He immediately relaxed, standing up.  
Tony took that moment to realize the horrible irony he had been presented with.  
Bucky Barnes, the man who had broken through decades of torture and brainwashing because of the words of one Steve Rogers, had completely disregarded the man he had tried so hard to protect.  
As Tony looked at Bucky who seemed to be snapping out of a sort of feral fog, he realized this situation was going to turn south. Fast. He was staring at Steve’s crumpled form in what Tony summed up to confusion and extreme horror.  
Tony and Natasha shared a look that confirmed that she too knew exactly what was about to occur.


	7. Tension (or Natasha is Magical)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have wished a bird would fly away,  
> And not sing by my house all day;
> 
> Have clapped my hands at him from the door  
> When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
> 
> The fault must partly have been in me.  
> The bird was not to blame for his key.
> 
> And of course there must be something wrong  
> In wanting to silence any song. 
> 
> ~ Robert Frost

There were many thoughts running through the soldier’s mind, and all of them revolved around Steve.  
The soldier knew in his heart, not his mind, that what he had done was wrong. It was wrong on a sickening level that went deeper than usual guilt. He couldn’t quite place a finger on it. Stupid damn brainwashing.  
What he didn’t know was why? Why did he feel like he was going to throw up or that, even worse, he wanted to curl up and shake and quiver like a little child?  
The soldier couldn’t help but take in the calm face of Natalia and the worried expression that Howard’s son wore, as he walked towards Steve, each step feeling like a thousand shards of glass piercing his feet; and he would know exactly what that felt like. His heart was beating impossibly fast and he could feel each thud in his fingertips.  
Steve was already regaining consciousness and the soldier had no idea what he was doing. He wished he could wonder why he had hurt the man who had done nothing but try to help him. But he did know why, and the reason was simple.  
Pierce and Lukin and Zola and all the others in between had wanted the perfect killing machine, and after so many years and so much pain, they had got one.  
The soldier sat down next to Steve and placed two fingers on his neck, already knowing he had a pulse, but just double checking out of- was this instinct?  
Steve’s eyes fluttered open as he sat up slowly, groggily, and rubbed his head.  
And then Steve locked eyes with the soldier.  
There were no words to be said. There was nothing but silence. Steve looked at the soldier with those sad blue eyes. He realized, in the back of his mind, that in a way, they were one in the same; both soldiers remade for the cause they fought for. They had lost everything.  
  
***  
Steve woke up to the sound of screaming. It took a few moments for his mind to process why he was on the floor, and when he remembered, he felt nauseated.  
He brought his focus to the person in front of him on his knees. Bucky.

“What’s wrong?!” Steve whispered fiercely as Bucky suddenly gripped the sides of his head and began to scream again. Steve looked at Natasha and Tony for something, anything.  
“You’d better get used to it.” Natasha said softly, trying to help Steve up. He shrugged her away and placed a timid hand on Bucky’s shoulder, who flinched so badly that Steve threw it off. Bucky’s screams were those of a broken man, his screams were that of a person who had suffered for so long and so horribly. Steve wanted to scream as well.  
“I don’t know- I don’t know what to do! I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t–” Steve repeated over and over until Natasha managed to haul him up and pull him away.  
“No! I have to go to him! Let me go to him!” Steve yelled, his own voice becoming hoarse. There was so much noise between the two screaming soldiers.  
Bucky was hoarse now too, and whimpering, his eyes shut tight with agony.  
Then he went silent. Then he went still. Bucky was an ice statue– unmoving, frozen in time.  
Steve found a chair and sat down abruptly, his legs suddenly unable to function properly. All around him, the world was distorted, sounds not matching up with the actions creating them.  
He knew that Natasha was talking to him, but all he heard was a throbbing echo that he realized was the sound of his heart.  
His breaths had taken over his mind as he focused on drawing out each one for as long as he could. Steve knew what this was; he had experienced it enough. Panic attacks were no stranger in his life, or Bucky’s for that matter.  
Bucky.  
Bucky who had protected him over and over again, Bucky who had stood up for him when no one else would even try. Bucky who was the center of Steve’s everything. For the first time, Steve started to believe that Bucky, his Bucky, the one who had died saving Steve, that stupid stubborn sarcastic boy, was gone.  
But no matter who had taken his place, Steve knew one thing, one thing that was perhaps the only clear thing he knew; he would stick by the side of the ghost of his friend, no matter the consequences, no matter the outcome.  
Steve heard more defined voices, and they were calling his name.  
He slowly looked up, the odd edge of anxiety slowly ebbing away. Natasha was kneeling down next to him, waving in front of his face.  
“Steve! Snap out of it.”  
So he did.  
Bucky was still in the opposite corner, staring at Steve with an unwavering focus. Tony was gone, probably to herd up the rest of the crew.  
“Be careful,” Natasha warned, as he slowly got off the chair, walking over to Bucky. She left quietly. Steve took a breath and stood up.  
“Hey.” He spoke softly, not wanting to startle anyone.  
“I killed Stark.”  
The words hung in the air.  
Bucky searched his friend’s eyes for something, anything.  
Bucky had always had this habit of biting his lip when he was uncomfortable. That was his tell and the man in front of his was biting his lip rather viciously.  
“I know. I know you did.” Steve wished he could hide his toneless response, but he couldn’t. He was never much good at lying, especially not to Bucky.  
“I knew him too… before? Like I knew you?” There is not a single sound, Steve thought with a lump building in the back of his throat, sadder than the unevenness of someone’s voice just as they’re about to break down completely.  
“We both did.”  
Bucky is silent for a moment, his eyes getting a far away look in his eyes that made Steve worry infinitely. He didn’t want to lose him again. He–he couldn’t.  
“I don’t feel bad. Why don’t I feel anything?” Bucky finally asked, his voice a ragged and hushed whisper.  
“Feel bad about what?” Tony exclaimed as he walked in, Banner, Thor, Clint and Natasha filing in behind him.  
“Brother! It is good to see you.” Thor exclaimed, walking over and giving Steve a clap on the back. Thor smiled at Bucky, who didn’t smile back. Bucky was staring at Tony, his eyes filled with an unreadable emotion.  
“And you–James Barnes. Any friend of the Steve Rogers is a friend of mine.” Thor reached out to shake Bucky’s hand, but ended up pulling him into a hug. Bucky flinched and twisted out of Thor’s grip.  
“If you ever lay a hand on me again, I will–“  
“Hey, hey, let’s keep death threats to a minimum, I’ve already had my fill of near death experiences for one day.” Tony interjected.  
Bucky grimaced and stared at Tony with the precision of the sniper Steve knew he was; every movement Tony made Bucky followed, calculating something in that mind of his. He was rigid, like ice, yet his eyes were filled with the inferno Steve knew was blazing in his mind.  
Tony, on the other hand, looked at Bucky with something not far from admiration.  
But that couldn’t be right.


	8. Angst and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My one regret in life, is that I am not someone else,"
> 
> ~Woody Allen

“So,” Tony exclaimed as he ushered the heroes into the very grand and quite central dining room, “you are all probably wondering why in god’s name I’ve called you here today, or yesterday, or– whenever I called you is besides the point. Moving on,” Tony glanced back at the people following him and noticed that they looked tired; really tired, “Well, the reason is that I need your help, but what I am going to request is not exactly up any of your alleys, so I will totally understand if you want to back out now. Just kidding, I’ll judge you forever. So all in favor of chickening out raise your right hand and repeat after me; I am a scaredy cat.”  
No one raised their hand. They had arrived in the room and beta to sit down. Tony sat at the head of the table with Natasha to his left and Steve to his right. Barton was on the right of Natasha, Banner next to him, with Thor cramming into the all too small chair beside him. Bucky was in between Steve and Sam. Tony wasn’t going to lie to himself; Natasha’s speech seemed to be taking effect as the Avengers looked wearily at Barnes. Barnes, who had this far off look in his eyes, staring at the table, whispering something under his breath. He was rocking back and forth, shivering. His disheveled hair was hanging in front of his eyes and with each tremor that ran through his body, his hair seemed to shake. He suddenly snapped out of it, his body going still and rigid. He sat up straight and tall.  
Steve was absently touching the already caking bloody wound on the side of his forehead where he had been hit; every time he touched it, it seemed like a shock of electricity went through him (though perhaps it was more of an emotional response than a physical one). Out of the corner of his eye, Tony could see Natasha staring at Barnes, who was staring right back at her with the same intensity. Great. Now there was two mildly psychotic Russian assassins in the same room, what could possibly go wrong?  
Tony cleared his throat.  
“I’ve called you here today because, despite my plethora of skills and contributions to this society, I, Tony Stark, have no earthly, or unearthly,” he winked at Thor, “idea how to get married.”  
There. He had said it.  
“Excuse me, I think I heard that wrong,” Clint said, fidgeting with something behind his ear with a smile on his usually unexpressive face.  
Natasha had on that sly look that made it impossible to determine whether she was thinking about the feng shui of the room or how to kill a man with a number two pencil.  
Banner seemed to be contemplating the idea, his eyebrows raised, his lips pursed.  
“Be this a joke, Tony?” Thor’s eyebrows were knit together in confusion.  
“Actually no. I didn’t know who else to call or who else to–“  
“Have you ever heard of wedding planners?” This was Steve. He had stopped touching the wound (which was already looking a hundred and fifty times better) and was instead glaring at Tony with nothing less than disbelief. No, not disbelief, disappointment.  
“Well, yes, but that’s not–“  
“Did you consider the fact that we don’t sit around drinking expensive wines and polishing our sports cars? Did you care to consider that we might have something important going on in our lives?” Steve’s voice was deadly calm, “Did you even think–no, excuse me, you never think, do you?”  
“Listen, you can leave if you want, abandon ship and all that jazz. Tend to your boyfriend and get a change of scenery–trip’s on me,” Tony fired back.  
Steve slammed his palms on the table and stood up, towering over Tony.  
“Did you just call him my boyfriend?” Steve was too calm for the situation at hand. Much too calm, like the sea before a great storm.  
“You didn’t deny it!” Tony answered, shooting Steve a sarcastic smile. To his right, Natasha tensed.  
“People have real problems, Stark, out in the real world. Not that you would know,” Steve’s voice was incredibly uneven now. It shook horribly. He was cracking, slowly, but surely. Maybe Natasha had been right. Maybe they should’ve listened. Or maybe this was who Steve was, underneath the stars and stripes.  
Maybe Steve Rogers was just as broken as the rest of them.  
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through in the past few months?” Tony asked, anger creeping into his voice. His home, his (though relatively small) family, his sanity had been severely threatened and it seemed that no one knew, or cared.  
“No. I don’t exactly track your every move.” There. There was the Steve that Howard had talked about; the one with slicing comebacks. Sort of. This Steve was about to snap.  
“Obviously. You wouldn’t know how to even if you could. I keep forgetting you didn’t have this technology back in your day. Maybe if you had, you could’ve found Barnes before he got turned into a mindless weapon.”  
That’s when Natasha slapped him. She slapped him right across his face and it stung like hell.  
He realized what he had said and wished she had punched him instead.  
Steve was shell shocked. His lips were parted and his eyes were as wide as a full moon. He looked as though he had been simultaneously punched in the stomach and kicked in the spine.  
Tony glanced at Barnes who narrowed his eyes, causing a chill to run down Tony’s spine.  
Bucky reached out towards Steve’s shoulder, but dropped his hand before letting it come in contact with skin. An odd look passed across Barnes’ face, one that startled Tony and made him feel sick to his stomach. Oh god, what had Tony done?  
“Steve, I–I just I need it to be perfect. For Pepper. It needs to be special. It needs to be–I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.“ Tony choked and couldn’t continue. He had no idea why he was getting emotional over this.  
Steve looked wearily at Barnes for the briefest of moments before letting his eyes slide up slowly to Tony’s.  
“He’s not a weapon. Not anymore. He’s a person,” Steve’s voice was a hoarse whisper, “He’s a person, Tony.”  
“Brother, we know. He is a person, just as you and I. He has walked in the world of demons, but that does not make him one. Sometimes, for some people, that is hard to understand,” Thor told him quietly.  
Tony wanted to scream that he understood that, of course he did. But he remained silent, for the first time in perhaps his whole life.  
Then, something unpredictable happened; Barnes happened.  
He suddenly stood up, everyone’s attention snapping to him, especially Steve’s.  
“You talk about me as though I’m not even here,” he said, a twisted, cold, and unamused smile spreading across his face, “It’s funny. You know who used to do the same thing?”  
Barnes never quite finished that thought because he was suddenly throwing up. Barnes was violently vomiting all over Tony’s favorite persian rug.  
Damn, Tony thought, is karma a bitch.


	9. Winter's Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit stressful so warnings there. Also, we meet a new side of Bucky and perhaps, an older one. 
> 
> “Nobody can hurt me without my permission.” 
> 
> ~ Mahatma Gandhi

The first thing that ran through Natasha’s mind was that James needed medical attention; this was no stomach bug. She should’ve known better.  
“Help me get him to the medic center on floor 8!” She yelled, leaping from her chair and running to James, who was hunched over, palms bracing himself on the floor, hacking up the contents of his stomach, which she figured was nothing but bile. Natasha knew starvation when she saw it. But this was much more than that; of course it was, this was James they were talking about. He almost had no regard for his health.  
She rubbed his back in circular calming motions whilst hauling him to his feet.  
Luckily, Steve was there to take him from her arms. Natasha was strong, but James was dead and heavy weight. He was burning up too.  
Damn it James, why do you always hide your pain, she wanted to snap. As long as she had known him, and she suspected even before she had, James had always suppressed his true feelings, whether they were malevolent or beneficial. After all, she had learned from the best. But this was a different James.  
Steve wrapped James’ right arm around his shoulders and started towards the elevators. Tony, Bruce, and Thor followed. Sam and Clint were exchanging hushed words that Natasha, though her ears and eyes were near perfect, could not intercept.  
She got in the elevator, which was now crowded, and pressed the eighth button.  
“Sir, what seems to be the predicament?” the eerie yet calming voice of JARVIS suddenly sounded.  
Tony, who looked paler than James, an odd sight indeed, was tapping his foot impatiently.  
“Barnes needs medical attention. Please have the room ready by the time we get there,” Tony said loudly. He was stressed. Natasha could practically see the blood pumping through the protruding vein in his neck.  
“As you wish, sir,” JARVIS said with a sigh. Could machines even sigh? She guessed they could.  
In the far corner, Steve appeared impossibly small under the weight of James, who looked almost grey under the lighting of the small space. He looked like a ghost, Natasha thought with a shudder.  
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Immediately, Tony rushed to a computer on the wall and started tapping it. Steve briskly walked James to a surgical table.  
Oh no, Natasha thought a split second before James started to hyperventilate.  
“What are you doing to me? Why am I on a surgical table? Why are you doing this to me? I didn’t do anything wrong!” His voice was high with fear. Fear and remembering are a dangerous mix, she thought bitterly.  
“You’re sick, Bucky. We’re trying to help you,” Bruce said gently, so gently, helping James onto the table and motioning for him to lie back. James was shivering, his teeth barred. Steve had to restrain him to keep him from punching Bruce. Maybe this was too much.  
“JARVIS is running a vitals scan,” Tony spoke hurriedly, “the results will be up in minutes.”  
“I didn’t do anything wrong! I’ve been good! I swear I’ve been good!” his voice was a broken thing; a record on repeat.  
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Bucky!”Steve told him firmly.  
“Get me off this table then!” James screamed, thrashing against Steve’s grip.  
“It’s for your own good,” Steve said, his voice hollow.  
Oh shit, Natasha thought. Oh _shit_.  
Suddenly James went very still. He stopped fidgeting and stared at the ceiling, his body becoming pliable. There were things she had to discuss with the Avengers, starting with the topic of triggers. From her time, and her time alone in the Red Room, she still could be transformed into an obedient child with just a sentence. James, who had endured longer than she ever could, had more triggers than even she had figured out. What Steve just said, those five seemingly harmless words, had been repeated through the years by Zola, and Lukin and Pierce. Especially Pierce. She hadn’t known him personally, (what she meant was she hadn’t been under his “care”) but she did know, somehow, that he was the worst. She wished it had been her to put the bullet in his head. Natasha went to James.  
“Hello Dmitri,” she whispered in Russian, smoothing away the greasy hair from his forehead.  
“Natalia? Why are you here? I told you never to watch them do this to me,” he said in Russian (thank god, she thought, Steve did not need to hear this), his steel blue eyes studying her for any signs of betrayal. He would find none.  
“They aren’t going to hurt you, Dmitri. You are among friends.”  
Natasha was never one for tears. She could count the times tears had slipped through her eyes on one hand, and even then, most of those were involuntary reactions. But now, she had the urge to let the tears slip away. He deserved better. They both did, he and Steve. But she pushed away those thoughts and let the world stop around her. It was just her and James.  
“Where is Pierce? Is he mad? Is he using you to hurt me? Do it. You can do it. Don’t let him lay a finger on you.” As he spoke, Tony suddenly gasped at the results of the scanner. Natasha ignored him. Her mission was James.  
“He’s away. You’re not being punished, Dmitri. Don’t you trust me?”  
At this, he laughed. It was a rusty broken sound that ended in a fit of coughs.  
Bruce slid an i.v through the vein on James’ right arm, who, if he felt it, showed no sign.  
Natasha quickly scoped the room. Steve was caving in on himself. She could feel it. They all could. He was drawn, distant, standing in the far corner of the room, his arms wrapped around his chest, his eyes on nothing but his friend. He felt helpless. She knew that feeling was the worst of all. The air in the room was filled with nervous energy that clung onto their clothes and skin like the smell of smoke from a bonfire. Around her, Bruce and Tony talked with their hands as well as their lips, while also grabbing medical supplies.  
“Trust you? Don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Natalia, you’re smarter than that. Before Pierce gets back, I need you to promise me something. I need you to promise me you’ll run away and never look back. Never come back. Do you understand?” His speech was getting slurred by the drugs pumping into his system. She gave him a small smile as his eyes closed and he slipped through the cracks of consciousness. No one else knew, nor would they ever know, just how many times she and James had repeated this conversation throughout the years, and each time he was wiped clean, they were forced to start over.  
Natasha turned away abruptly, and if anyone saw she would deny it with her life, but as she let the world start spinning again, a single hot tear hurtled down her cheek.  
“I promise,” she whispered in vain.

***

“His vitals are failing. He’s severely dehydrated and malnourished. There’s an infection in his left shoulder. I’m not even going to start on his sleep deprivation. Did Fury’s people not do anything for him? Did they not give him a checkup?” Tony asked Steve. Or maybe he wasn’t asking Steve. No he definitely was.  
“I thought–I thought they had. Oh god. This is all my fault,” Steve fell out of his trance and hurried to the table. Natasha had disappeared after her Russian heart to heart with Bucky. Steve had a strong desire to know what had transpired in their little Russian heart to heart, but he decided that now wasn’t the time. Steve decided never to take a moment for granted again. He kept realizing over and over again that no matter how bad a situation was, it could always get infinitely worse in a matter of seconds.  
Suddenly Bucky shot up, gasping for air. His eyes whipped around the room until they found Steve’s. The breath rushed out of his lungs as Bucky gave him a pained look, almost like the one he had given Steve that night so long ago on a rooftop.  
“We need to sedate him again. How did he even wake up that quick?” Bruce urged.  
Bucky shook his head.  
“No! No more drugs. No more needles,” he ripped the i.v out of his arm, “Do what you have to do.”  
“Barnes, do you understand that the Midgardians might have to amputate your arm?” Thor asked.  
“I understand what’s going on. I’m not stupid. Just no more needles, alright?”  
When everyone stared at him like he was insane, he simply shrugged.  
“Nothing I haven’t handled before.”  
The room went silent at this revelation. Just the thought made Steve’s head pound. Every time he thought he had seen all the sides of his friend, another one appeared. 

“We won’t sedate you but we need to feed fluids into your body. Your organs are deteriorating. That can only be fixed intravenously.” Tony said logically.  
“Fine. But no drugs. Promise me you won’t sedate me. No matter what. It won’t work anyways.”  
“Lucky for you, I learned how to perform minor surgery last week. Don’t ask, you don’t want to know,” Clint seemed to have appeared out of thin air.  
Tony looked at Steve for approval and Steve looked at Bucky.  
“Are you sure about this?” He asked. Bucky nodded, biting his lip.  
“This is my choice,” he whispered, working his lip even more.  
“Then I will stand by it,” Steve told him, wanting so badly to reach out and hold his hand, knowing it would end quite badly.  
So, Clint slid on a pair of gloves and Bucky sat back on the table.  
“Do whatever it takes,” Bucky said, setting his jaw and his decision. Bruce slid in another iv, this one filled with fluids that would hopefully repair Bucky’s damaged organs.  
Clint grabbed a scalpel and what looked like a hand saw and–Steve had never been queasy, but he just couldn’t look. Instead, he focused on his friend, his dear friend. _This is my choice_ ; Bucky's words repeated over and over again inside Steve's head.  
“If you want,” he ventured on a whim, “you can hold my hand. You know, if it hurts really bad.”  
“I never had a hand to hold at HYDRA,” was the response he got.  
Steve didn’t ask again.


	10. Certain Twisted Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is at peace- this wretched man-  
> At peace, or will be soon:  
> There is no thing to make him mad,  
> Nor does Terror walk at noon,  
> For the lampless Earth in which he lies  
> Has neither Sun nor Moon.
> 
> ~ Oscar Wilde
> 
>  
> 
> (that last chapter was kind of brutal please accept my humblest apologies mwahaha, but enjoy this one which is a bit tamer and perhaps more enjoyable)

_“Forgive me father for I have sinned and all that.”_  
“Tell me son, what is on your mind?”  
The world flickered in and out of existence.  
“I’m not pure, I guess.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I’m all wrong.”  
“How are you wrong?”  
“There are these dreams I have sometimes.  
“What kind of dreams.”  
“I–I have to go.” 

_There was a flicker of light and old music. Records. It smelled like cigarettes and sweat. Then there was alcohol. Lots of it. It tasted as bad as it smelled. After nine shots, walking straight was out of the question. There was a lot of falling, onto the cold snow. It was icy and it burned. There was a weathered door, finally, and as it opened the smell of home filled the air.  
“Steve,” there were tears and a hug and then silence._

The soldier woke up and thought he was drowning. It took him a second to realize he was merely on a bed. It was much too comfortable. It reminded him of water, everything did these days. His first real decision was saving Steve. At first, the soldier had expected punishment.  
Pierce would find him and–and wipe him, or worse, never let him forget. That would be the greatest punishment, the soldier thought with a shudder.  
He had failed. He had failed and for a few days he hadn’t known what to do with himself. He hadn’t wanted to die, but not by his own hand. What that meant, was that his desire to end his life was in fact there, but he would not end it himself. So, he ran. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, perhaps as a punishment he was inflicting upon himself since there was no one else there to do it for him. But then, weeks later, he had gotten curious. He tucked his hair under a cap, and pulled on a jacket, despite it was the hot summer, and stumbled to the Smithsonian. He needed to know what was the truth.  
There was an exhibit on Steve. Steve, and his Howling Commandos.  
And then there was this Bucky. This Bucky was young, full of life, smiling with Steve in a film, laughing about something incredible, clean shaven and... and happy? It didn’t look like him now, rather, it looked like a long lost relative; the kind his grandfather would pull out of a dusty old photo book and go on for hours about the family’s history.  
How did he know that? How did he remember a grandfather’s tale. A face took shape, old and weathered.  
 _This is your bloodline, James. That was your great aunt Judith._  
“No,” the soldier winced out loud, for he didn’t believe this was a memory at all. Just a fabrication of the mind.  
He had spent the whole day at that exhibit before a young girl had walked up to him.  
“I know who you are!” she had whispered excitedly. The soldier had turned around to face her, his eyes quite wide and full of fear.  
“No one knows who I am.”  
“I do. You’re not good at disguises, just saying,” the little girl beamed.  
She was the first person to speak to him in weeks. She was the first person he had met that hadn't tried to kill him, besides Steve. Sort of. The soldier was still hazy on what Steve's intentions had been.  
“Why are you speaking to me?” he had asked, not quite rudely, but not kindly either, confused at the girl’s boldness.  
“You’re a hero.”  
“No, I am a monster.”  
The little girl reached out and touched the tip of his metal hand. He flinched. She didn’t.  
I’ve killed little kids, he thought with a sick feeling in his stomach. I could kill her. Do I want to? Should I?  
“Monsters don’t believe they are monsters, you know,” she said softly. Her mother called her.  
“Stephanie! Come here right now!”  
The little girl glanced back at her mother, and that’s when a dart hit the soldier’s shoulder.  
He fell with a thud, and as he closed his eyes, the little girl had screamed.  
But she hadn’t screamed in fear. She had screamed his name.  
He had woken up behind glass, in a white room with people hustling about him, never quite making eye contact. The rest had unfolded from there. `

The soldier snapped out of the flashback and looked around the room. It took him another moment to remember where he was. Tony Starks house, if a house it even was. He was on a bed in the house built by the son of the man and woman he had murdered.   
That memory was as clear as day.   
Then there was the dream he had to deal with. The soldier never remembered his dreams but he remembered this one- it was missing moments, his mind already becoming fuzzy about the details, but it was there, somewhere, in the back of his mind.  
The soldier tried to remember if he had seen Steve in the dream. He had called the name so Steve must have been there. But there was only a blank darkness. The soldier wanted to scream, but he wouldn't. Screaming meant you were out of control. Screaming meant you were losing it. He hadn't lost it yet but the time was coming, he could feel it in his bones. He hadn't been so long without being wiped and put on ice.   
But was it a memory or a dream? Was his mind making up stuff to fill in the gaps or was his mind resurfacing old moments?

That's when he remembered his arm, or lack there of.   
The metal one, the one he never wanted, the one he so profoundly despised, was gone. Instead, a small stump remained at the base of his shoulder. A small stump that was covered in a bandage already beginning to stain red. It was gone, he thought with a maniac smile spreading across his face.   
But it hurt. It hurt a lot and that's exactly what the soldier wanted.   
Pain was what he knew.   
The soldier didn't know many things these days.   
He remembered trying his best to hold in the screams as the metal arm was carefully removed but he eventually couldn't. There had been a moment, while he had been on the brink of becoming unconscious, when Clint Barton's face had morphed into Zola's, Tony Stark's into Pierce's, and Steve's? Steve's had He had blacked out shortly after, probably. Definitely. 

_You can hold my hand if you want, if it hurts really bad._

The soldier did not want to hold anyone's hand.   
But there was something deep inside him that lit up when the suggestion was made. This confused the soldier.   
He had accepted the fact that he and Steve had known each other before. But he must've been a different person and it was definitely a hundred lifetimes ago. Bit just the fact that the soldier had known Steve did not make him remember Steve.    
It wasn't supposed to be possible. The brain was never designed to have so many memories and so many lives. People weren't made for that.   
The soldier didn't feel like a person though, so maybe that's how he survived so long.   
The soldier scanned the room and found Steve on the floor, sleeping. He had fallen out of the chair beside him.   
The soldier studied the man. He had a dash of freckles across his nose. Constellations, the soldier thought, realizing he had called Steve’s freckles by that name before. Right? Or was he just imagining things, making up false memories to compensate for the ones he knew in his heart were truly lost.  
But, if he had known Steve well, he knew he would’ve called the stardust that spread across Steve's nose and cheeks constellations.   
The soldier stood up for a closer view. He sat cross legged next to the man on the ground.   
His eyelashes were so long. They were made to catch snowflakes. The soldier knew they had certainly caught them before.   
How did he know that? Why could he remember the stupidest details and not the big picture. 

"Who was I to you, Steve Rogers?" He asked out loud, not purposefully.   
"Are you sure you want to know?" Steve didn't open his eyes, but his voice had surely sounded. Hadn't it? His mouth hadn’t opened.  
"No. But I want you to know I am not that person now."  
"I know you aren't."  
This stung the soldier more than he let on.   
"We were as close as two people could be, I guess." Steve whispered.   
"What's that suppose to mean?"  
"Whatever you want it to," Steve's face was suddenly blurry and the room started to spin.    
 _Fuck_ , I’m still dreaming, the soldier thought, an odd wave of disappointment flooding his chest. Why was that?  
The soldier woke up with a start.   
***  
Steve hadn’t gone more than six feet away from Bucky the whole day, especially after the surgery. Half way through the time his friend had passed out and been brought to their room, Bucky had started mumbling in his sleep. Steve couldn’t make out the words though. Steve suspected they were either in Russian, or gibberish.  
On the bed, Bucky stirred, his eye lids fluttering as he slowly opened his bright blue eyes.  
Bucky sat up slowly, his blue eyes rimmed red and his hair sticking up from all angles. His eyes darted around the room in confusion before he relaxed, only slightly, leaning back onto the bed post.   
"Evening." Steve said and attempted a smile. Bucky had been out the whole day, almost.  
Bucky looked at his arm, not even acknowledging Steve, confusion spreading across his face. The confusion quickly melted into disappointment.   
"It's still here.” Bucky’s voice was hollow, as he looked at his arm.   
"Of course it is. Clint just needed to isolate the infection. There was a piece of metal that was chaffing and- god you had me so worried Buck," Steve stood up and walked towards the bed, kneeling down in front of his friend.   
"Why would you worry about me?" He asked absently. Bucky was still studying his quite intact metal arm and the white bandage wrapped from his left shoulder across his back diagonally and then up across his chest. As he moved, it began to seep red.   
“Why would I worry? You were screaming. Why didn't you let us sedate you?"  
"You don't really want the answer to that Steve,” Bucky hadn’t made eye contact with him yet and that hurt Steve in a way he couldn’t quite understand. He wished he could understand what was going on inside Bucky’s mind.  
"Yeah. I do."  
"I wanted to feel it,” Bucky said, his blue eyes fixed on his metal fingers. He curled and uncurled them. They made a little whirring sound.    
"I get it."  
The soldier never expected him to say that. Steve could see it in his eyes.   
"You what?”   
"I said I get it. I understand.” And he did. He completely understood.  
“How could you possibly?” Bucky asked quietly.   
Steve ran his tongue across his bottom lip and then swallowed.   
“Aren’t you angry?” Steve finally whispered.   
“Aren't you?” Bucky whispered back, his voice dangerously soft.   
“I was under the ice for all those years. The world changed and it changed without us. I thought I had died. I thought that I'd– never mind. When they found me, when I was woken up, I had lost you, lost everything, only moments before. For weeks, I had this old punching bag,” he attempted a smile, “and every night I’d come home, my hands bruised and bloody, and I’d collapse onto my bed and just stare at the ceiling for hours. I worked that punching bag so hard it exploded, so I kept getting more. Every punch was for something I had lost, someone I had lost,” Steve let out an angered breath, “And now that I realize that while I was wallowing in my own stupid self pity, you were out there, I–“ Steve took a breath and found that Bucky was looking at him, his eyebrows knit together in, was that concern? It couldn't be.  
“You what, Steve?” Bucky asked, biting his lip.   
“I want to break something.”  
There. He had said it. Captain America was angry. He was very angry. He was angry at the world and what it had done to him, to Bucky. And at the center of his problems, there was HYDRA. He decided then and there, that he would end it once and for all if it was the last thing he did; for him and for Bucky. To his surprise, Bucky grinned. It was a real smile, the first he had seen in over 70 years. Steve wanted to cry and he wanted to laugh. 

“Then what are we waiting for?” Bucky asked breathlessly, his blue eyes alive for the first time in the longest of whiles. 

***

“What do you think they’re doing up there, Nat?” Clint asked, running a towel through his hair.   
Natasha was sitting on the bed, drying her hair as well. Clint loved those red waves, but he never told her. It wasn't professional. She patted the spot beside her and he walked over, dropping down. His knees cracked as he sat, and he sighed. Retirement sounded nice at times like this.   
“Want a massage?” She signed. Clint rolled his eyes. Ever since Natasha had found out about his hearing aids, she insisted on learning sign language. That had been three years ago. He didn't even bother putting them in when it was just them alone, unless, of course, they were on a mission.  
“No, I’m alright,” he lied.   
There were so many lies he had told everyone; how he had gone around the world on missions for SHIELD, picking fights with dragons and ex–triad members. How he had kept crime down a notch in the middle east, how he had raided a European drug ring.  
Then there was the truth.   
It wasn’t that Clint hadn’t done all those things in some way, it was just, most of them were by accident, and definitely not requested by SHIELD. Clint had gone on his own vendetta. He knew he wasn’t alright. There were nights he felt cold all over, just like he had felt after his mind and body had been stolen from him.   
Correction; he had been in control. He had wanted all those horrible things. He had sympathized with the enemy.   
He had tried to kill Natasha.    
Yet there she was, on his bed, offering to massage his back, which ached indefinitely.   
He didn’t deserve it.   
So all those months he was away, he had traveled, seeking shelter with people who turned out to be triad members (Clint had no choice but to react to that), befriended a scientist who had accidentally turned his lab lizards into giant komodo dragons with extra poisonous venom (Clint hated lizards), had won a poker game against the head of the Iranian mob, and instead of reaping the rewards, had simply requested the man relinquish his control over a few territories and release some families the mob had kept prisoned (the mobster had been more than happy to oblige, valuing his money more than his power), and accidentally stumbled across a top notch drug exchange (he quickly disbanded it).  
All this, he did accidentally on the way to the top of a mountain in China, where, as his original goal had been, he joined a monastery. After months, he had finally found a little peace and quiet.  
Clint was still uncomfortable with physical contact, something, he thought sadly, he shared evidently with Barnes.  
“Okay Clint, spill it,” Natasha suddenly demanded, her fingers roughly moving to form words.   
He turned to look at her.   
“It’s just a massage, Nat.”  
“No. I know you, I know you’re hiding something,” she persisted.   
Clint smiled. There were no secrets she couldn’t uncover. But it was worth a try.  
“The only thing I’m hiding is the fact that I just performed surgery on a 90 year old man who looked not a day past 25 and he didn’t even want a sedative. Why wouldn’t he want something to soothe the pain?”  
Natasha’s face darkened.   
“Pain is what he knows. Perhaps, it is what he thinks he deserves.” Her expression was clipped and brittle. It warned him not to ask anything further. Of course, Clint pressed on.  
“Does he?”  
“Of course not.” Her motions are controlled.  
“You knew him, didn’t you. It was more than a gunshot wound through your hip.”  
“Lie down,” she instructed. He slumped onto the bed, laying on his stomach.   
She straddled his back and began to massage his shoulders.   
“It was more than a gunshot wound through my hip.”  
Clint closed his eyes and let Natasha work out all the knots and pulled muscles in his back as she signed him the story of her and Barnes; sometimes her hands moving in front of him, other times, the story being told across the skin of his back.   
God I missed her, Clint thought to himself. 


	11. Dreams and Other Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience,"
> 
> ~Julius Caesar 
> 
> To all the lovely people reading this, thank you for doing so. You're literally the reason I've kept this up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Steve asked as he turned around and took off his white tee.  
The soldier made a strangled sound as he saw the bullet scars that had pierced and left a trail across Steve’s body. I did that, the soldier thought. Steve quickly put on a grey hoodie and walked over to him.  
“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, his blue eyes flooded with concern.  
The soldier bit his lip. He wanted to do this, he couldn’t have Steve worrying. Well, wanted wasn’t exactly the right word. He didn’t know how to describe it.  
“Nothing. Where’s my hoodie?”  
Steve gave him a wary look and tossed him a black one.  
“Ah, I see you know the lingo of the century. Nat would be proud.”  
“I don’t believe that is the sort of thing that would fill her with pride.” The soldier thought out loud. The soldier often wondered how she had gotten tangled up with these people in the first place. He didn’t know exactly how he knew her, but he knew her like he knew Steve; some time, somewhere in his many lives. And he knew her more than he knew Steve.  
Steve sat next to the him. The soldier was suddenly hyperaware of every little creak on the mattress, every breath, every movement that Steve caused or made. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the nervous energy spilling from his as well. You see, the thing Steve and the others hadn’t quite figured out yet, was the fact that Bucky had a serum too. But it was different than Steve’s, for his serum was designed to beat Captain America, and he could. While Steve’s was made for good, his had been made for the unpleasant. It showed through the soldier’s skin; you could see it in his eyes. They were two sides of the moon– Steve and him– one bright and open, the other dark and secluded. Darkness has no limit, Lukin had told him once, and neither do you. Steve’s had amplified the good of his core while the soldier’s had magnified the demons he possessed. His was made to pack as much power into a body as it could; barely on the edge of shattering it in the process. His serum had hurt more than Steve’s ever could have and his serum was given multiple times throughout the decades (not that he needed them, HYDRA just wanted to keep improving him because he was their little puppet, their lab rat, their pride and joy and demise). The soldier wanted to end them. He wanted to inflict the damage onto them that they had placed upon him.  
“Can you leave,” the soldier whispered, his tongue feeling like lead, “I have to change.”  
Steve stood up quickly, his movements jerky and stiff. The soldier noticed a thin silver line running across Steve’s cheek.  
I did that, the soldier thought.  
As Steve turned, the soldier noticed how Steve held his shoulders; they dropped down at an angle and hung as if he were carrying a weight on them. You’re the weight, the voice of Pierce whispers in his mind. Steve’s steps were heavy, not those of a killer.  
Once Steve exited the room, the soldier slid to the floor, braced his palms against the floor boards and tried to breathe.  
I’m drowning, he thought, as he felt the waves licking his feet.  
Take a breath, petrushka, it will all be over soon, Pierce’s voice echoed in his head, it will all be over soon.  
“No!” the soldier screamed, “Get out of my head!”  
He took breath after breath, blinking away tears that he weren’t even sure were falling.  
He waves were going to swallow him up, weren’t they?  
No. No they weren’t. Yes they were.  
“Bucky? Bucky!” Steve called from the shore. He was definitely drowning, there was no need to pull Steve under too.  
You were always weak, my child, Pierce whispered in his ear.  
“Bucky, I’m here. I’m here with you.” Steve’s voice called from the shore.  
The soldier shut his eyes and suddenly was not in the room at all. 

 

He was in a field. Grass didn’t grow like this anymore, he thought. It was almost up to his waist. The golden sun beat down on his neck but he couldn’t feel the warmth. The sky was sapphire and not a cloud was in sight. Suddenly, the sun began to set. The bright blue sky started to bleed pinks and golds and reds and oranges.  
That’s when the soldier saw him; them.  
Right in the middle of the field were two young boys, a blond who was as skinny as a stick and a brunette who was only slightly bigger.  
They were lying on their backs, looking at the stars that were about to creep into the sky.  
The soldier made his way closer. Time seemed to speed up and the night sky darkened, only to be lit by the full and bright moon, and the starlight from above.  
“Rogers, do you wanna know what I think?” the brunette asked, propping himself up on his elbow to face the blond– oh, the soldier thought with a shock, that was Steve. It was Steve, but it wasn’t Steve. This Steve was so small, so frail, so young.  
The brunette is me, the soldier thought in amazement. He studied the young child, clean of tragedy, no blood on his hands, untainted.  
He had hair that fell into his eyes and two missing teeth, the two front ones. His hands were bigger than they should’ve been and his body was lanky and awkward.  
That was me, he thought.  
“Whaddaya think?” the little Steve asked. He was impossibly tiny, and as small as the young soldier had been–Bucky had been– he still could’ve snapped Steve’s neck in a swift mov– no. No don’t think like that, the soldier snapped.  
They both had this accent– Brooklyn. It was stronger then than the soldier had ever heard it in either of them now.  
The young soldier picked a blade of grass and formed a slip knot, then placed it on top of Steve’s head, pulling the end to make it snug. Then the young soldier tucked a daisy into the front.  
“You should’ve been born a prince, you know?” the little child said with a gap toothed smile.  
“Really, Bucky? A prince? Why?.”  
“Well,” the little soldier said, his eyes brightening, “I’ll tell you a story of a prince who used to be a penniless pauper.”  
And so the little soldier began, his words magic as they tumbled from his lips, captivating Steve and filling his head with hopes and dreams that he had never thought of before.  
It felt like the Soldier was there for hours, listening to the ridiculous tale being told.  
And then, the little soldier boy stopped.  
“But, the prince realized that though he had all the riches in the world, the one thing he truly desired, he had lost and it could never return.”  
“And what was that, Buck?”  
“His true love, of course! Stevie, do you ever pay attention?” the brunette asked mockingly.  
“I love your stories! I love ‘em so much,” the small Steve protested excitedly. He was still wearing that ridiculous grass crown.  
“Well then let me finish,” he cleared his throat, “So, the prince relinquished his riches and went to seek his true love only to find that she had died. The end.”  
“What? You can’t end it like that! Your stories always have happy endings!”  
“Not tonight.”  
Steve flinched, his blue eyes widening.  
“Bucky… is your dad bea–“  
The little soldier nodded, his eyes filling with tears. So I have always been tainted then, the soldier thought bitterly.  
Steve engulfed him in a hug and the two sat there shaking, supporting the other’s weight until Bucky had fallen asleep and Steve had gently laid him down on the ground beside him. Then Steve had flopped back and closed his eyes.  
“Dear God,” his little fierce voice whispered, “I know I’m not all that much, and I know that you’re real busy, but please, pleeeease, if you’re up there, make James Buchanan Barnes safe. And God, please make him happy. Amen.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm so sorry for not updating for so long. I've been so busy! I just wanted to thank all the people who've read this and supported it. Thank you thank you. 
> 
>  
> 
> “Let no man pull you so low as to hate him.”   
> ~Martin Luther King Jr.

The soldier woke up against Steve. Steve who was curled up against the corner of the wall.

He untangled himself and watched as Steve jolted up, taking a moment to get his bearings.   
_Just like during the war_ , a voice inside him whispered. It was an old and weathered voice that he knew. _Oh_ did he know that voice. He wanted it out of his head.

Steve locked eyes with the soldier, worry evident in his expression. 

“I’m _fine_.” The soldier mumbled. 

“Don’t lie to me. Don’t you dare lie to me,” Steve said, his voice incredibly uneven.

The soldier studied Steve. He had dark circles under his eyes and faint worry lines across his forehead. 

And then there were his freckles, just as they had been in his dream. 

Before he knew what he was doing, the soldier reached out to touch them, moving his thumb across Steve’s cheek. They were like stardust, just like he had dreamed. 

Steve was shaking. 

“It must be hard for you,” the soldier whispered, “to have to tip toe around me, be careful of what you say in front of me, how you act.”

Steve was impossibly still. The soldier cupped Steve’s chin and tilted it up, closer to him. 

“I am a burden. Admit it. You would be better off without me.”

“If you even are, then you are a burden I’m willing to bear for the rest of my life,” Steve finally said. 

The soldier winced and withdrew his touch. 

“I’m never going to remember. I’m never going to know you. I’ll never be your friend from before whatever happened to him.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Just this morning you were him. But the thing is, I’m not asking you to be. I’m asking you to be whoever you are in the moment; whether it’s someone I know, or someone I don’t. No matter who you are, I’m going to be by your side. With what you’ve been through- you can’t expect me to want anything else.”

The soldier closed his eyes, bright colors flashing around in his mind. He twitched, his head pulling to the left. The colors were too bright and they felt like knives against his skull.

“I wanted to kill you. I still do, some times,” he grunted. This was true. The soldier thought too often about wrapping his fingers around Steve’s neck and squeezing, watching Steve’s eyes roll back in pain. It gave him chills.

“That’s okay.”

“No. No it isn’t. Even I know that. Do you know how fucked up that is? People don’t want to kill other people!”

But Steve was persistent. 

“You _are_ a person.” Steve whispered.. 

“I am an asset, a _weapon_! Why do you want to believe in me? Why do you want to believe I’m not exactly what I am?”

“Because I know you!”

“No you don’t!”

The soldier stood up and slammed his flesh palm into the wall. Blood flowed through the cracks of his fingers. 

“Bucky–“

“My name is Dmitri. I told you already!” He yelled. 

“Why me, huh? Why am I the only one who has to call you that? Everyone can call you Barnes or Bucky and you’re just fine, so why me?” Steve explodes, standing up as well. 

“I don’t know!” The soldier cried. 

Steve looked like he wanted a drink. Maybe ten. Twenty. 

_Good_. The soldier would make Steve hate him. It was the only way.


	13. Surface Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's been a few people promoting me on tumblr and I just wanted to say that I love you whoever you are thank you. If you have any questions or ideas or anything really, feel free to comment them– I'm pretty good at replying.
> 
>  
> 
> “The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”   
> ~ George Carlin

_“Hello, you’ve reached the voice mail of Virginia Potts. If you are calling about Tony Stark, press one. If you are inquiring about business requests with Stark Industries, press two. If your name is Tony Stark, press three.”_ __

Tony pressed three. The line rang five times before stopping.

_“Hey Tony. Sorry I can’t talk to you right now. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back. Actually– there’s only a 12% chance I’ll call you back. Love you! Water my gardenias and remember to vacuum the–“_

Tony sighed and closed his eyes, lying on his second favorite leather couch on the top floor of the tower.   
After a few moments, he put the phone back against his ear.

“Hey Peps. Just checkin in to tell you I’m safe and that, well, there’s an assassin staying with me. I’ll keep you posted. Long story short, the man is neither a myth nor legend, just a ghost story. Anyways, enjoy the beach. Don’t surf with Don. I know I’m a catch, but he outsizes me in more ways than one and– I love you. See you soon.”

He hung up and turned off the light. 

 _What a day_ , he thought, what a day.   
With each passing hour, Tony felt the desire to talk to Barnes, just _talk_ to him. He didn’t know why. While talking to Steve was stressful at best, talking to Barnes, Tony imagined, would be something close to closure. Tony knew that was wrong on so many levels, but he just could’t get the idea out of his head. 

And then his cell rang. It was Pepper’s ring tone.  
He answered it.   
“Hey Peps–“

“If you want your girlfriend to live, you will deliver us the Winter Soldier within the next forty-eight hours. He is not your property, he belongs to HYDRA.” The man on the other line had a voice that sounded like ashes being sprinkled over a grave. It was rough and low and harsh. 

“You’re sick. Barnes _isn't_ property,” Tony said, anger rising in his chest.   
There was a chuckle from the other end of the phone. 

“The Winter Soldier is a puppet without strings. It’s only a matter of days before he snaps. He needs to return home. Back to where he belongs.”

“Don’t you dare lay a _finger_ on my wife.”

“I’ve sent the address to which the drop will take place. Do not bother trying to track it. If you do, your girlfriend will suffer. Forty-eight hours, Anthony Stark. The Asset needs to be controlled, he knows no other way.”

Tony hung up, his fingers shaking. He threw the phone across the room.   
“JARVIS, alert everyone. I don’t care what they’re doing. Tell everyone it’s a code red.”

On his way to the ground floor, Tony grabbed a nail gun and blow torch. 

Everyone was there before him looking tired yet determined, and maybe a little pissed off.   
Barnes was wearing a hoodie Tony had bought Steve and sweatpants that were clearly Steve’s as they pooled at the bottom of his feet ever so slightly. Steve was taller than him after all. It was the first time Barnes had changed clothes in perhaps forever. Steve was in a hoodie too. They looked, if Tony hadn’t known better, like kids who wanted to take a baseball bat to a glass window pane. They looked, if Tony hadn’t known better, like looking at each other hurt.  
Natasha was in a skimpy little black thing– Pepper really needed one of those– oh Pepper; the thought of what they were doing to her, made his heart feel like it was going to burst.   
Clint looked incredibly Zen and Bruce looked ruffled.   
Thor looked like any Asgardian god who had been introduced to the show American Horror Story; shocked yet aroused. Sam looked, well Sam looked sleepy.

“It’s Pepper,” Tony choked, suddenly out of breath, “HYDRA has her.”

“What do they want?” Natasha asked calmly, but her eyes betrayed her.

“A trade,” Tony whispered, gulping.

“What for?” Thor asked. 

“For me.” The words sounded like they had scraped themselves off the roof of Barnes’ mouth, “I’ll do it. What’s the time frame?” he asked, his expression unreadable.   
Beside him, Steve opened his mouth to protest but Natasha cut him off. 

"You don't have to do this. You don't belong to them. You can make your own decisions." She told him calmly.   
She and Clint shared the look of two people who held so many secrets yet knew each other's. It was an odd sight. 

"That's the difference between you and me, Natalia," Barnes spoke slowly, his words measured and paced like a steady heartbeat, a steady trigger finger, "only a person can make decisions and I do not think I am one of those."  
The room was silent except for the whir of the ac.    
Natasha eyes were bright and shimmered slightly.   
Steve looked gutted. 

"There's another way,” Rogers protested defiantly.  
Barnes shut his eyes tight. 

"There are endless ways, I'm sure. But I can not be responsible for another death in _this_ family."

In this family? Did he mean the Avengers family?

"I'm not letting them take you."

"You don't have a choice, Steve. Me for the girl. Let me do the right thing. For _once_ ,” Barnes added his voice tight. 

"What if I had a plan? A way to save you both?"

"There's no salvation for me. HYDRA is waiting for the surface tension to break, and when it does, they know as well as I, that you will not want me."

"That's a lie!" Steve yelled, balling his fists up.   
Bucky Barnes grinned wickedly. 

"We shall see about that,” Barnes said and not without malice. 

What the hell was going on with them?

 

******

As they parted their ways to suit up, Natasha found herself being trailed. 

“Hey, Natasha, wait up!”

She didn’t stop, but slowed down to the point that Sam matched her pace quickly. 

“What is it with you guys, I can never keep up,” he joked, but she knew he was there for more than a satyrical influence. 

“What do you need?” she asked, entering her room.  
Sam took a breath. 

“Man, I am not nearly as brilliant as you in the spy life and all that, but I am just as good as picking up on lies. Nat, why is Bucky doing this? I know you’ve met him before. No one calls you Natalia, not even Barton. What’s going on?”

Natasha slipped out of her clothes and smiled at Sam’s startled gasp that he tried and failed to hide. 

“What?” she asked, turning around, “never seen a naked body before?”

He rolled his eyes. 

“You’re avoiding the subject.”

She realized that she was without even trying to. Natasha pulled on her black suit and started strapping on her belt with all its gadgets. 

“Why does everyone assume I know all the answers?” she asked, “Zip me up?”  
 Sam zipped up the back of her suit and then spun her around to face him. 

“You’re a damn good spy, Nat, but even you have your tells. You knew him before D.C, didn’t you?”   
The thing about Sam Wilson was that, like Steve, he was quite hard to lie to. His eyes were honest, but more importantly, good.   
Those were the worst combination to stare into as you lied, she knew from experience. So she chose not to lie.

“We are not letting Barnes turn himself in. We all know he’s not thinking straight. We need a plan. I have one. Nothing else takes precedence right now. Maybe a different day, different time, I’ll tell you what you want to know. But now, Sam, we have to rescue Pepper and save a man who doesn’t think he’s worth saving. And that, Sam, is the hardest kind of person to save.”

He nodded and clenched his jaw. 

“It better be a damn good plan.”

She smiled as he left her alone.   
Oh she hoped it was.


	14. Frayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So basically I want to thank you all again for reading this. I've been so busy (my excuse for being mia). I also want to say hang in there, because soon enough, people get their happy endings, even if they aren't in the way you might expect. 
> 
> "Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?"
> 
> ~Pablo Picasso

The soldier watched as the team disbanded, leaving him and Steve alone. The whole affair lasted only a number of seconds, but watching them leave one by one seemed to last a life time.  

Steve wouldn’t–couldn’t look at him. The soldier knew Steve was angry at him. He had a right to be. It must be hard to deal with someone like the soldier. Every moment, he was a different shade of grey. Every moment he was a different tone of red. 

"We'd better suit up. I'm sure Tony has something for you.”

Steve turned on his heels and started walking. It wasn't until he was a good yard ahead that the soldier was meant to follow. He did.  

They ended up in a room lined with reflective glass panels. Steve pressed a palm to one of the panels and it slid open, revealing a suit. There was nothing for the soldier. He hadn’t expected anything, and he didn’t need anything. 

Instead, he was busy staring at his reflection in the mirrors. 

He saw dark bags under dead, murky eyes. He saw sickness. He saw bones that stuck out where they shouldn’t have and pale skin that seemed as fragile as paper. He saw a mess with hair in disarray, and a beard which was just as disgusting as the rest of him.   
What the soldier didn’t see, was a person. 

“Can you turn around? I have to, you know,” Steve mumbled, his cheeks blushing. The soldier did not blush, he simply turned around. 

The soldier thought about returning to HYDRA instead. He closed his eyes as the flashes of metal against his skin, the burnings, the beatings, all came back to him.   
This is what he was going back to. This is what his future held.   
It was what he knew, and oh did he know it well.  
He was, after all, a puppet without strings. He would always need someone to string him up again and use him. He needed a master.   
Memories fade over time, and memories can be lost. But pain? Pain stays with you forever.   
And there was something comforting about that. 

 

******

Steve slid into his newly designed suit.   
Getting new suits always left a sour taste in his mouth. He was perfectly comfortable using his original one–preferred it even.   
But the sour taste in his mouth was not from a new wardrobe. 

He looked at Bucky, trying to permanently burn the image of him standing there, wearing 21st century clothes, into his head.   
He was still so dreadfully stubborn. No one could ever persuade him, not even Steve, once Bucky set his mind to something.   
But this was different. Steve would not let him go without a fight. He simply couldn’t.

As he placed his newly painted shield on his back, he felt, with each breath, a sinking feeling in the cavity of his chest.

He couldn’t have been the only one with a plan. It was just that his plan, was the one Bucky didn’t want to hear most.   
Steve was losing it. He could feel his mind begin to fray at its outermost edges.   
How could Bucky not see himself as a person? Steve wanted nothing more than to hold his friend so tight that maybe, just maybe, all those shards of broken parts would mend themselves back together again.   
“Please reconsider your options,” he whispered.   
Bucky spun around, his blue eyes filled with malice.   
“There are no options with HYDRA. Why don’t you understand that?!” His voice was loud and echoed around the room.   
Steve was taken aback, whether from the total rage in Bucky’s eyes, the fact that the outburst was directed to him, or both, he did not know.  
For a moment, they just stared at each other; Bucky drawing ragged breaths and Steve barely breathing at all.   
“I need weapons,” Bucky whispered, his eyes traveling over Steve’s uniform.   
He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out.   
“What?” Steve finally asked.   
Bucky walked up to Steve and timidly touched the star on the center of his chest.   
“It’s all wrong,” he mumbled, then walked out of the room.   
Steve followed a few seconds later.


End file.
